The Star of Versailles

by Catherine Curzon

  “And you,” William gasped sharply, “will still be lost.”

  “No, sir—I will rise higher than Robespierre and his puppets ever dreamed.”

  He laughed afresh at that, though he was fast running out of energy now, the agony starting to make itself felt in a way he could not ignore.

  “And tomorrow, when the hours have weakened you to a babe, we will talk again.” With that, he cast down the horsewhip and stalked from the room, Jacquet following after.

  Left alone, William closed his eyes, amusement fading to worry and pain as, once more, he wondered what the night to come would bring.

  Agony and the end, he knew, but I will have known how to feel and that, that has to be worth something.

  I will not die having never lived.

  As the hours passed, the world plunged into darkness, even those barking the news outside the house growing silent eventually. Left suspended by his bound wrists, William lost track of the time, of the footsteps that passed the closed door now and again and even of the occasional sound of voices from floors above.

  He heard a clock strike each hour, concentrating on the chimes in his fugue and counting ten, yet still there was no sign of life until the door opened and Harriet entered, her head bowed low. Her narrow wrists were no longer bound, though she was not alone, Jacquet following with a gun trained on her back. The girl glanced to William with eyes filled with concern, crossing to the dresser as Jacquet lit candles, his gaze barely leaving her.

  “Visitors.” William tried a smile for her sake. “Just what I was hoping for.”

  “I cannot dress hair,” Harriet told him carefully, “so I am set to work being a maid to the lady.”

  “Don’t talk to the likes of him, girl,” Jacquet snapped. “He’s the sort of man as kills youngsters like you—my own boy.”

  “I would offer to switch places with you.” He ignored Jacquet, addressing Harriet again. “But I fear I have the marginally worse position here.”

  “Might we loosen his arms a little?” Harriet asked Jacquet appealingly. “Or at least place something beneath his feet so he is not so…pained.”

  “No, lass.” Jacquet shook his head and she nodded, lower lip quivering until he said, “Citizen Tessier’d have my guts.”

  “Citizen Tessier has been recalled,” William told them both. “His days are numbered. You should take care of your own guts.”

  “Monsieur Jacquet, will you go back to Paris?” Harriet looked to Jacquet and William detected a softening of the guard in her presence, perhaps reminded of his own lost child. “He will expect you to stay at his side—his belief in his cause is very strong.”

  William stayed silent, thinking not for the first time that the young woman was wise beyond her years.

  “My own father is dead, Monsieur Jacquet, he was all I had in this world.” Harriet’s head dipped as she, apparently, battled with her emotions. William found himself admiring her ability, thinking her well-trained. “I am so sorry for your boy but please, can we not do something to make this man more comfortable?”

  “Mademoiselle—”

  “The hook seems none too secure in the ceiling,” Harriet implored, wiping at her eyes, and William let his head fall again, doing his best to appear harmless. “Might it not just…fall? He is manacled, sir, he can do you no harm and nor would he, with me held here.”

  “This much and no more.” Jacquet pushed a bundle of sacking under William’s feet, just enough to relieve the pressure on his muscles. “Now gather the food and let’s leave him to it.”

  The relief was instant and William shot a smile of gratitude to Harriet, wishing that the girl could stay with him, even though he knew it to be impossible.

  “One more favor?” he asked Harriet as they turned for the door.

  “What’s that?” Jacquet’s tone was suspicious, eyes narrowing.

  He smiled at the guard before whispering to Harriet, “Before you give anything to Sylvie? Make sure you spit in it.”

  “Of course,” she told him earnestly, turning to Jacquet again and asking, “If you were to fasten my hands again when the lady and gentleman are eating supper, might I come and sit in the kitchen later?”

  “Not a chance.” Jacquet shook his head.

  She frowned, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she nodded.

  The guard watched her then amended, “Maybe—we’ll see.”

  The exchange gave William comfort on one level—Harriet, however unhappy, was, at least, not being mistreated.

  A moment later, he was in darkness again, the house silent once more. He closed his eyes wearily, pain sinking in now he was alone. William drifted, thoughts of Gaudet mingling with the less pleasant memories of the last few hours, the Frenchman’s name a gasp on his lips when he jerked awake, only to drift again moments later.

  William heard the door opening, though whether in a dream or reality he wasn’t sure. Light footsteps were followed by heavier boots and he heard Jacquet say, “No going near him, no passing anything.”

  William opened his eyes to look at Harriet. Jacquet settled into a seat at the table with a bottle of beer. The girl seemed tired, he thought, worry and fortitude vying in her expression.

  “I still cannot do hair.” She eventually smiled, lifting herself to perch on the work surface so William did not have to move to see her.

  “Then we have that in common,” he managed. “Where’s a playwright when you need him?”

  “Hmph,” Jacquet said to that, unfolding a newspaper and settling to read.

  Harriet met William’s gaze with a rather meaningful one of her own, then looked down at her manacled hands for a moment.

  “Those hairpins, they get everywhere, horrible, sharp little things.” Harriet sniffed. William watched her as she went on. “Everything is so small and fiddly. Hair grips, silly little tiny scissors—I am afraid Mademoiselle Dupire is not so impressed with my efforts as she might be.”

  “Nothing small about that diamond she’s after”—the guard didn’t look up as he spoke—“and when they’ve found that, it’s back to Paris for you.”

  “And what about you?” William asked Jacquet.

  “Me?” He glanced up at William. “I’m just a man doing his job for his country.”

  “That is probably what the man you all called Dee would have said,” Harriet reasoned innocently. “Yet, I doubt the defense would go very far were he to be put on trial here in France—a defense is only as good as the person who hears it.”

  “They’ll have your head on a pike next to Tessier’s,” William told Jacquet firmly. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “I had never thought Robespierre would fall…one realizes how far things have gone already.” Harriet shook her head. “After Danton, Desmoulins—Citizen Tessier’s student circle is growing smaller by the day.”

  “Doesn’t look good.” William met her gaze. “Does it?”

  “Not to me.” She shrugged and Jacquet shook his head, going back to his paper.

  Harriet contented herself with chatting with William about nothing in particular for some minutes and he wondered whether she had a plan or if she really was that relaxed despite the heavy manacles that held her hands.

  Eventually, Jacquet finished the bottle of beer and yawned.

  Seeing this, Harriet asked, “Can I get you another bottle?”

  “I wouldn’t say no,” William replied before gathering himself enough to watch Jacquet.

  “You don’t have to wait on me,” the guard told her, though his sincerity was undermined by the fact that he didn’t lift his eyes from the paper he was reading, squinting through the candlelight.

  Harriet hopped down from her perch and retrieved one of the bottles, humming to herself as she crossed the kitchen to where Jacquet was bent over the page. She glanced to William, a second in profile in which she was the very image of her father, then she lifted the bottle and slammed it with a sickening thud into Jacquet’s unsuspecting skull.

&
nbsp; My God.

  William stared for a long moment, feeling a swell of respect for this deceptively strong girl. As Jacquet slumped over the table, Harriet set the bottle down. She brought her wrists to her mouth, teasing a long hair grip from inside her sleeve. Holding it between her teeth, she worked with a swiftness that he could scarcely countenance to pick the lock of the manacles. He found himself thinking with new respect of this girl’s father, wondering at exactly what their adventures across Europe might have encompassed.

  Free of her chains, she fastened Jacquet’s hands behind his back and, tucking a sharp kitchen knife into that same sleeve, crossed to where William was chained to the hook.

  “Papa always said one never knows,” she mused, applying the grip to the keyhole of his manacles, “when one might need to pick a lock.”

  “I would have to say,” William told her, as he found himself freed, arms so stiff he could barely lift them, “your papa is right again.”

  “There are at least five guards somewhere else in the house, as well as Tessier and that bloody woman.” Harriet’s eyes widened and she said, “You must not tell Papa that I said ’bloody’.”

  “I will not,” he promised, hoping that he had enough strength left to make his rescue worthwhile. “Now let’s get back to your father.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In the hours that had passed, Gaudet had witnessed Dee’s fury at William’s self-sacrifice burn bright for some hours until, settled in a nondescript lodging house with Adam setting out the common sense facts of the matter, the professor finally began to calm. After all, Adam pointed out, the fall of Robespierre had suddenly weighted the scales firmly in their favor.

  As the men laid out their plans, Gaudet stole from the house and hurried through the nighttime streets in search of the spy he now knew he adored, the pain of William’s absence and the fear for the man and girl almost too much to bear. Reaching the building, he stared up at it with a frown, realizing now that he was no more able to breach its walls than if it were the Bastille itself.

  But look what happened there.

  With that in mind, he hurried down the lane at the end of the row of houses and picked out the back of the house, where a guard waited. For a moment, he watched then set off into the shadows, trying in vain to see if there was any way he might gain access by another route, but all appeared impossible.

  All the time, Gaudet studied the buildings, circling them and peering up into the darkness. He felt the sense of dread increasing, each lost moment another in which William was in Tessier’s scarred hands. Suddenly, he wondered whether his father had been right in decrying him as a wastrel, sure now that he had not really mastered the correct skills to perform an operation such as this.

  Hardly a task for a playwright.

  Then today I shall be something more.

  “So what’s the plan?” He jolted at the sound of the child’s voice and glanced back to see Bastien rounding the corner. “I’ve come to save my girl. Want me to get you in?”

  “In there?” Gaudet could hardly believe that Bastien would ask such a thing. “Go back to the others, Bastien, this is no place for you.”

  “I got something for you,” he whispered, his eyes wide. He drew a pistol from his pocket and handed it reverentially to Gaudet. “You might need it.”

  Gaudet’s stomach lurched, yet he took the weapon from the boy, weighing it in his hand until he said, “I have nowhere to put it—you keep it.”

  “I’ve already got one.” The child grinned, holding up another firearm as Gaudet slipped the pistol into his coat.

  There was slightly too much enthusiasm in Bastien’s face when he retrieved his own pistol. Gaudet gave him a brave smile. Then, taking a deep breath, he walked along the alley until he could see the house in which the pair were being held.

  “Wish me luck,” Gaudet said to nobody in particular, reaching up to take hold of the window ledge and lever himself nimbly up.

  Using the ivy as a handhold, and with some effort, he scaled the facade of the house, hardly daring to look down or even think about exactly what he was doing. No candles burned behind the glass and, as he reached the upper floor, Gaudet glanced at Bastien and instructed, “Shoot!”

  Bastien didn’t need telling twice and, as he pulled the trigger, Gaudet punched through the window, shattering the glass with a sharp gasp of pain. After a moment to ensure there was nobody in the room, he climbed through the broken window to find himself in a richly furnished bedchamber, still filled with the possessions of the unfortunates who’d once called this place home. He hardly dared to breathe, but trod on tiptoe across the floorboards toward the door, pausing to listen for any sign of life. When Gaudet heard nothing, he moved through the three upper rooms as silently as he was able, until a deep mattress tempted him and Gaudet sank down to catch his nerves, dropping his head into his hands.

  As soon as his thoughts turned to William and Harriet, Gaudet was on his feet again, listening at the door before slipping from the room. He might have thought the house deserted were it not for the sudden sound of a voice from downstairs.

  Gaudet pressed his back to the wall, creeping along as he tried to work out whether he could recognize the voice, hardly daring to hope. A moment later he was sure it was William. His heart leaped at the sound of his lover’s hushed tones, followed by a feminine voice that sounded just a touch exasperated.

  Reminding himself not to shriek with the thrill of finding them alive, Gaudet hurried downstairs to the darkened hallway where the pair could be found. At the sight of William’s injuries, he gave a mute gasp of horror, barely worrying what Harriet might think as he threw his arms around the Englishman.

  “I shall return within the hour,” Tessier’s voice split the silence from upstairs. “Admit no one.”

  “Chérie,” Gaudet began, still holding him close.

  “Shhh!” Harriet pressed a finger to her lips and drew them back along the hallway.

  The seconds, as Tessier descended the stairs with two of his men, seemed like hours. Gaudet was sure he would hear their pounding hearts over the marching boots. The figures paused at the foot of the stairs before Tessier opened the front door and, with the guards flanking him, left the house.

  “I could kill him,” William murmured. “I could kill him with my own bare hands.”

  “Not today,” Gaudet told him, taking Harriet and William’s hands in each of his own. “Now let us get the lady home to her papa and you, chérie, home to bed.”

  “How much does Dee want to kill me?” William gasped as they made their way toward the door. “Just so I know.”

  “He will probably want to take you to bed when you walk in with his daughter on your arm,” Gaudent decided warmly. “I think, perhaps, the front door is guarded. And the back.”

  “Then how do we get out?”

  “One guard.” Gaudet released their hands suddenly and drew his pistol. “Versus one French playwright. We leave through the front door, chérie.”

  “Don’t you dare get yourself killed,” William instructed. “Do you hear me?”

  “Me?” Gaudet asked playfully at the front door, sure that nobody could tell how terrified he was.

  A moment later, he dragged the door open, though he could feel William’s tension behind him, heard him mutter something comforting to the girl, something she would probably be a fool to believe.

  Before the guard had even registered what was happening, Gaudet had the gun pointed at him, yet the playwright knew even then that he could not possibly shoot another human being. The soldier likely had no such reservations and Gaudet landed his own pistol hard on the man’s head. In fiction, they always fainted, but this man did no such thing, instead swearing rather loudly until, on the third such hit, he finally crumpled to his knees.

  Suddenly there came a shriek from Harriet and Sylvie barked, “Nice try, Monsieur!”

  She had a tight hold of the girl’s plait in one hand, the other clutching a sharp dagger wi
th a lethal point.

  Harriet froze at the sight of it, urging the men, “Go.”

  “Go,” William repeated to Gaudet, before, in the next moment, he lunged toward the armed woman, the force as he fell into her enough to knock her to the floor.

  Harriet went with her, twisting in Sylvie’s grip to land a startlingly firm punch on her jaw. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed William’s hand, dragging him to the door, where Gaudet hit the now-stirring guard once more for good measure. The three of them hurtled out into the street, Gaudet catching their hands again to pull them along with him as he called, “Don’t collapse yet, Guillaume.”

  “Collapse,” came the indignant response. “Englishmen do not collapse, sir.”

  “Nor do they shout about being ‘Englishmen’ in places loyal to the new regime,” Gaudet told them, not entirely sure where they were going even as they ran.

  “Gaudet.” William seemed to have read his thoughts. “Where are we going?”

  Gaudet froze as Tessier’s black carriage glided out of a side street and stopped right in front of them. He would not, he decided, get caught now, even if he had to rip Tessier’s head off with his own, very delicate hands.

  “Back,” William hissed. “Quickly!”

  The black-shrouded driver of the coach turned in the moonlight to peer at them for a long moment, then he lowered the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. Gaudet’s mouth fell open at the sight of Dee’s best friend sitting, somehow, at the head of Vincent Tessier’s carriage, and Adam laughed. “You three look a sight for sore eyes—climb in.”

  It was less a matter of climbing and more one of being dragged, in William’s case, but the trio were finally ensconced, the door shut and the carriage rolled on its way.

  Gaudet fussed around both William and Harriet, encouraging both to settle back into the squabs, the carriage surprisingly luxurious for a citizen who claimed to favor austerity. He hardly knew what he could do to help, all too aware of the blood that stained William’s tattered shirt, the bruises on his face and deep cut on his forehead. He eventually reached into his pocket and found the blue scarf the milkmaids had given him, pressing it tenderly to the wound on William’s skull as he took Harriet’s fingers in his other hand. “Monsieur Guillaume was your hero today, Mademoiselle!”